


Amid the Winter Snow

by BozBozBoz



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, For Cotesgoat, Lair Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28321224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BozBozBoz/pseuds/BozBozBoz
Summary: Set post final lair, with influences from ALW, Leroux and Kay.  A chance glimpse of Christine on the streets of Paris sees Erik heading straight for Perros Guirrec and into a snowstorm. When things go awry, what will our favourite duo do? Will she still recognise him, and will there be enough beds to go around? Eventual smut, naturally...Written for Cotesgoat, who likes the good old fashioned tropes.  Hohoho! Merry Christmas my dear :)
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	Amid the Winter Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cotesgoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cotesgoat/gifts).



It had all been a hideous mistake - a ridiculous idea in hindsight. If he was totally honest with himself, it had not even been an idea, it was a whim, a fleeting urge which hit him in a moment of weakness, and had now lead to him standing here, in the freezing air, staring at the pale but achingly perfect face of his beloved girl as she lay unmoving in the snow before him.

He had not even planned to venture out that day. Only the failure of the errand boy to deliver his tea had forced him reluctantly to leave the safety of his home and brave the bustle of the market. He had never been fond of going out anyway, but he did so even less frequently since the fateful events of that night, almost six months ago now. 

He did not believe his girl would reveal his whereabouts to others, nor her ridiculous fop of a boy. He was quite certain that the both of them were far, far away now, and spared little thought for poor Erik, left behind in solitude and misery while they enjoyed a blissful future together, but still he feared the gossip. He had been careless, even reckless in his madness, and not concealed himself as well as he knew he ought. Plus there was that meddlesome Daroga, who, always on his tail, had now redoubled his efforts to keep check on him. (Although not, he thought with some bitterness as he skulked among the crowds, so closely as to ensure that his ridiculous errand boy faithfully performed his appointed tasks.) He did not know to what end. His girl was gone, his opera was complete, the ghost’s love story was at an end. He waited every day for his own demise, but, it seemed, his body was cruelly stubborn in refusing to give him the desired release, no matter how hard he willed it.

Perhaps then it was the shock of seeing her that did it. The sudden appearance of her, her head bowed, blue eyes fixed on the pavement before her, her beautiful head of curls covered in the hood of her travelling cloak, as she marched past him in the direction of the Gare Montparnasse. He most certainly hadn’t intended to follow her. He hadn’t even realised he  _ was  _ following her until he found himself on the train, huddled into the corner of a compartment, attempting to hide his face behind a discarded newspaper as the Brittany express sped them away towards Lannion.

He could not account for her being there. He had been so sure that her and her boy were far, far away, and there she was, directly in front of him, looking much as she ever had. He had expected that as a Viscountess she might look a little more grand, somehow changed and other than herself, but she still wore the same simple dress and travelling cloak that she always had and the boots peeking out from underneath the hem of her skirts looked scuffed and worn. The only marked change about her appearance was that the red scarf, normally always a part of her attire was nowhere to be seen.

The journey was awkward and uncomfortable. Christine remained seated, her eyes fixed on a faraway point on the horizon as the train lurched and jolted its way through the countryside, pulling them ever closer to the coast. Erik huddled himself into a corner, thankful for his usual habits of wearing a broad-rimmed hat and thick, muffling cloak whenever he ventured abroad. He tugged at the collar, pulling it up around his neck and shrinking back into its protection. More than once the train filled to capacity and he was forced to share his seat with another passenger. He could feel the sweat beading upon his brow, and it was all he could do to stop his hands from shaking as he grunted in response to their polite observations about the unusually cold nature of the weather, or the unseasonable lack of wind and rain they had been experiencing. The once fearsome opera ghost, laid low by small talk.

By the time the train pulled into the station at Lannion a soft flurry of snow had begun to fall from the sky. Christine alighted and began to walk along the platform. Erik followed at a safe distance, doing his best to keep to the shadows. He did not need to follow her to guess her purpose in visiting. His girl had spoken often of her regular pilgrimage to Perros to visit the grave of her father, and it was not the first time that he had followed her to this end. Last time though he had gone filled with hubris, and a certainty that she was firmly under his spell. There was, of course, the niggling problem of the boy, but a few well placed theatrics had, he thought, seen that threat off too. He shook his head at the memory. It had been the beginning of his downfall, the moment when he began to transition from angel to something more corporeal, and infinitely less desirable in her eyes. 

He wondered where the boy was now. Perhaps he would join her soon. He did not like to think of her travelling alone in the winter darkness without some form of protection. He would follow her only until he arrived to reassure himself that she was safe. Yes, that was acceptable. He was only being solicitous of her safety. His past exploits meant he knew places in Perros he could hide safely and observe her movements without being seen. He would not impose upon her, she need never know he had been here. Once he was assured of her safety and comfort in Perros, he would return to Paris, and resolve never to trouble her again. 

His resolve soothed him a little, and he began to look about him. The light was already fading, and he knew Christine would now take herself to the nearby coaching inn to secure herself a meal, and then hire a carriage on to Perros. He could hardly secrete himself within her carriage without attracting notice, and he knew that any attempt to hire an equipage himself was likely to draw attention to his presence. Perros was only a matter of two or so hours walk from Lannion. If he set off now, he would arrive shortly after Christine herself, and would at least have the comfort of seeing her go past on the road as she made her way. He watched stealthily as Christine crossed the street and entered the inn opposite, before ducking into a grocers for supplies - if he was to hide out in the graveyard of Perros he would need some fortification. Then, with a surreptitious glance through the window of the inn to assure himself that Christine was safe and well, and not being harassed by any undesirable characters, he bent his steps to the road out of town and toward the coast.

The main thoroughfare between Perros Guirrec and Lanion was a largely flat and broad stretch of road, passing through rolling fields and bordered by high hedges and occasional wooded copses. Here and there were dotted a small farmstead or the occasional roadside inn. The route was often frequented by traders, bringing produce to the market or crossing back and forth from the many small fishing villages that dotted the coastline to the west. Anxious to avoid detection Erik kept largely to the verges, making his way along the inside of hedges and through the edges of copses rather than risk being seen, but there were precious few on the road that evening, and Erik walked for almost an hour without seeing a soul.

He shivered, pulling his cloak about him tighter. His fellow passengers had been right, it was especially cold, and the snow, which had just been a light flurry on leaving Lannion was now falling thick and fast. He cursed his luck - such weather was practically unheard of this close to the coast. The road was already covered in a deepening layer of white, and the air was thick with falling flakes. His feet felt like lumps of lead as he dragged them through the building snow, a deeper sensation of cold than he had known for many years seeping into his bones. He strained his ear listening for the sound of hooves and wheels on the road, half dreading hearing them. Surely the driver would not be so rash as to risk taking a passenger out in conditions such as these? He stood for a moment, torn between pushing on towards shelter in Perros, and re-tracing his steps toward Lannion to reassure himself of Christine’s safety. Surely she would see sense and remain safe and warm in the inn tonight?

Perhaps it was the effect of the snow, muffling the sounds of the vehicle as it made its way toward him, or perhaps it was the numbing effect of the cold making his reaction times slower, but the coach was upon him almost before he saw it, and it was all he could do to duck quickly into the trees to avoid its path. No sooner than he had done so than it happened. It may have been the sight of his cloak whipping behind him as he moved, or the strange whiteness of his mask and the cat-like glint of his eyes that spooked the beast. An almighty skidding and clattering of hooves, followed by a rattling crash came from the road and the coach was down upon its side, the driver thrown from his perch. Erik had seen enough broken necks in his time to know there was nothing that could be done to help the man now.

The blood rushed in his ears as he approached the wreckage. He told himself over and over again that it could not be her coach, that his girl would not be so reckless and foolhardy to travel in such conditions, and yet he could not bring himself to put his hand on the door of the vehicle to peer inside. At the front, the horse trashed within its harness, metal shod hooves struggling to get purchase on the slippery ground to right himself. He fumbled with the buckles, conscious that if he did not free the beast further damage might be done should it right itself and attempt to flee. Task done, he stepped once more towards the toppled body of the carriage and with a trembling hand, opened the door. The sight within stole his strength and forced a tortured groan from his lips. Slumped against the opposite wall was the familiar travelling cloak, a shock of blonde curls peeking out from beneath its hood. 

She did not stir.


End file.
